


Pavane

by wyntre



Series: The Space Between Words [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Drabble, Fluff, Hannibal plays the piano, M/M, Melancholy, Music, Piano, i'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 12:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11691381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: A quiet moment; gentle and pensive. Memories are made from days like today, when tenderness reaches past violence and wraps around hearts.





	Pavane

**Author's Note:**

> This works best if you listen to a piano version of Ravel's "Pavane pour une infante défunte" while reading it.
> 
> Pavane  
> (pəˈvan,pəˈvɑːn)  
> noun  
> 1\. A stately dance in slow duple time, popular in the 16th and 17th centuries. 
> 
> A direct sequel to "Ya'aburnee"

Hannibal’s eyes flicker over the pages in front of him as his long fingers move with ease along the keys. It’s a piece he’s played a thousand times, so many times in fact that he finds reading the music almost unnecessary. The crackling fire casts deep shadows on his face, and he finds himself pensive. Will is all he ever wanted, an anchor in the storm of his mind. Now that he has him, the doctor feels melancholic at the idea of losing him. Will is dozing on the soft sofa, having spent the day mending the broken down truck in the garage of the house they were hiding in. Hannibal continues to play, sadness echoing out of the piano, knowing they would need to move on soon. Forever on the run. This piece is a slowly moving waltz, penned in 1899, dedicated to a dead princess; but Hannibal always associates it with endings, with memories.

Will wakes and slowly sits up, feeling the blanket Hannibal has draped over him fall away. He leans back into the sofa with his eyes closed, listening to the last few notes drenching the room in memory. Hannibal’s skill at the piano is something he’s always admired, and this piece is no exception. In all their time running, they had always had a piano or harpsichord in the house. Always a place for Hannibal to sit and flesh out his thoughts through the music of the greats long past. Some nights, when Hannibal could not sleep, Will would find him seated in front of the keys, composing. Now though, he was playing something familiar.

“ _Pavane pour une infante défunte_ ,” Hannibal says, sensing Will’s wakefulness.  
“It’s sad.”  
“Melancholy is the most honest of human emotions. You recognise it don’t you?” Hannibal closes the lid of the piano, and turns to look at Will, a small smile on his face. “It’s used in many films.”  
Will gets up and crosses the room, to sit on the stool next to Hannibal. “I wish I could play.” He flexes his strong hands, calloused from years of physical work.  
“You have the mind of an artist Will, you need a teacher who can mould it.” Hannibal turns back around to face the piano and lifts the lid. “You cannot start with Ravel. Place your fingers on the keys.” Hannibal places his own hands over Will’s guiding their movements. It is stilted, slow, like playing underwater; but it has the resonance of something Will remembers from many years ago. A dusty recollection from his palace. He suddenly feels self-conscious, and extracts his hands, allowing Hannibal to complete the piece on his own, from memory it would seem. He sits and listens, watching Hannibal’s hands on the keys; the way the firelight throws his cheekbones into relief. Hannibal finishes the piece, with a slight flourish.  
“ _Canon in D._ ”  
Will smiles at him, slightly crooked from where the nerve endings in his face are damaged. Hannibal finds it endearing.  
“Shall I keep playing?” The doctor’s voice is low, and there is an inch of space between his mouth and Will’s. The gap closes. They have kissed before, but today feels different. Tender, nothing to be gained from it except enjoying the memory it creates. A quiet moment; gentle and pensive. Memories are made from days like today, when tenderness reaches past violence and wraps around hearts. When they break apart, Will runs a thumb along Hannibal’s cheekbone.  
“Please, continue.”

~fin~


End file.
